Sick Day
by RedCoatsRedder
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is sick. And he refuses to acknowledge it. So what does Washington do but take care of him himself. Requested by a friend. Washingdad!


**Annnnnnnd I'M BAAAAACK! So this was requested by CloudyFlight, and I'm going to do my best. I want to thank those of you who have read all my work and reviewed it means so much to me!**

 **I own nothing. Like always. *sighs* also not historically accurate.**

When you are fighting a war for the freedom of a nation, petty things suddenly don't seem so important anymore. Like getting sick.

Well, to most people this still would be a big deal, and warrant staying away from work, but to Alexander Hamilton, catching an illness is no reason to stay away from the desk, something he tried to explain to his three friends.

"You're sick. You can't expect to write like you do and not fall ill." John Laurens crossed his arms and glared at Alexander as he attempted to leave the tent.

"Laurens, come on, you're overreacting." He tried to move around John, who quickly sidestepped and blocked his path yet again.

"Oh yeah? I bet Lafayette and Hercules would agree with me."

"You called?" The tailor's apprentice stuck his head inside the tent, grinning. He was followed by the tall Frenchman.

"Both of you tell Alexander that you can't work if you're sick." Hercules nodded his assent, and John slung an arm around his shoulder. " _Thank_ you."

Lafayette frowned. "They are right, _petit lion._ Do not make yourself more ill, it shall do no good to anyone."

"Well, what would you do if you were sick?" Alexander challenged. His friends simultaneously responded with "Go back to sleep." This argument was clearly getting nowhere.

Sighing in defeat, Alex flopped back down onto his cot. "Fine. I'll stay here. For today. Satisfied?" John nodded. "Yep. You should try to get some food later, if you feel up to it. And _no work._ " Alexander jokingly responded, "Yes sir!"

Hercules, Lafayette, and John walked out of the tent, likely going off to wherever their assistance was needed in the war. Listening carefully, Alexander waited until their footsteps died away before shooting up and grabbing his jacket. Peering around a corner, he darted off towards Washington's headquarters.

Slipping into the office, he sat down at his desk and began to look over a small stack of correspondents and missives someone had placed there. Most were asking for the army to attack British forces, but some were about food and supplies. Snorting, he picked up a piece of paper and began to write a response. "We..have...resorted…..to..eating…our ...horses." He placed it to the side while he waited for the ink to dry. Suddenly, a bout of coughing seized him. Shaking his his head, Alexander continued to write.

It was nothing, right? Just because he was coughing didn't mean he couldn't continue working. A knock on the door shocked him out of his reverie. "Come in." He called, hoping it wasn't one of his friends, come to make him go back to his tent. It wasn't. General Washington stood silhouetted in the doorway.

Scrambling upright, Alexander saluted. "Your Excellency!" Washington frowned. "Hamilton, I received word from Lafayette that you were taking a day off due to illness. What are you doing? You should be resting."

A deep flush bloomed over Alexander's face. "Sir, I assure you that I am in good health. I am more than capable of work today." Washington raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. However, all he said was "Very well. In that case, will you look over these for me and draft a report?" He handed Alexander a small list of supplies and food stocks. "Yes sir." The General nods and exits the office, closing the door behind him.

Alexander reached for his quill, and burst into another bout of coughing. Hacking and wheezing, he manages to stab the quill into the inkwell, and begins to start the report for Washington. It doesn't take long, and he is finished within the hour. Deciding that he'd better take the paper to the General's office, Alexander rises, report in hand.

Washington's door is slightly ajar, but it would be rude to barge in, so he knocks on the doorframe. "Enter." The General is sitting at his desk, reading a letter, but he looks up when Alexander enters. "Ah, Hamilton. Finished already, are you? Good work."

Giving a small bow, Alexander replies, "Thank you, Your Excellency, sir." Washington reads his report, eyes scanning the page. When he's done, he glances at Alex. "You are quite the eloquent writer, son."

Swallowing his usual _don't call me son_ , Alexander straightens proudly. "Thank you, sir." He sneezes suddenly. Washington is on his feet, looking worried. "Hamilton! You said you weren't ill. Sit down, go on."

Frantically, Alex rushes to assure the General that he is still alright. "I'm sorry sir, it was just dust, I am fine. Really." Washington clearly doesn't believe him in the slightest. He still looks concerned. "Hamilton, an illness is no jesting matter. If you aren't feeling well you should be resting, not working. We can't have you incapacitated."

"Sir, I give you my solemn word that if I fall ill I shall not work." Alexander promises. The older man sighs. "Very well. Do you think you could finish the correspondences that I gave you yesterday by tonight?" Alexander gleefully nods. "And do not overwork yourself. Dismissed."

There aren't many papers left, and he speculates that he might even be able to finish all of them early. Writing furiously, time passes outside while his quill scratches against the paper.

He signs the last page with a flourish. Glancing outside, Alexander sees that darkness has fallen, and he sighs. So much for getting back to his tent before his friends noticed. Might as well stay a bit later and see if there was any more work for him to finish.

Placing his quill back in the inkwell, he sneezes violently, upsetting the inkwell. Quickly Alex rushes to right it, but a small pool of ink has gathered at the base of his candle. Grabbing a few blank pages, he blots at the ink, trying to wipe away the puddle. For his efforts he receives a black mark on the desk and stained fingertips, though the latter is nothing new.

Scooping up the correspondents, he walks briskly down to the General's study. Hopefully he will catch Washington before he retires.

Knocking hesitantly, he hears the man's warm voice call out to him, and steps quickly inside. Washington is waiting for him, and smiles when he sees Alexander. "Hamilton, there you are. I see you did indeed finish."

"Yes, sir!" Alexander hands his pile of paper to Washington, who flips through it, reviewing his work. "Excellent. Good job, Hamilton. You should probably try to get some sleep, especially if there's a chance you could fall ill."

Alex groans internally. They've arrived back at the subject of his potential illness. Saluting Washington, he responds, "I will, sir, just as soon as I finish my writing." Knowing that nothing will deter Alexander from his work, the General sighs and waves a hand at Hamilton. "Alright. Go on, then. Finish up, you need sleep."

Sitting once more at his desk, Alexander notices just how _warm_ it is in the room, and he tugs at his cravat, shifting around. And now that he's not distracted by his work, he notices a headache and just how tired he is. Alex's head briefly strays towards the desktop, but he sits back up and tries to focus. His resolve lasts about five minutes, and he places his head on his arms. _Just a quick rest,_ he tells himself before he is lost to sleep.

He wakes up in another room. Not his tent, not his office, but a bedroom. Alexander is laying back against a few pillows, and the bedsheets have been tightly tucked around him, preventing much movement. There's something cool and damp on his forehead, and if he could summon the energy to move his arm, he'd see what it was. Looking around the room, he realizes that this is the master bedroom of a large house. It is nicely furnished, and Alexander sees his boots in the corner of the room, next to a larger pair. His jacket is draped over the back of a nearby chair. Footsteps sound from the hall, and Alex shrinks back a little, prepared to defend himself should the need arise.

The door creaks open slowly, as if the person was afraid of disturbing the quiet of the bedroom. They enter the room soundlessly, making their way to the bed.

Washington?

The man in question suddenly notices Alexander gaping at him. "Alexander, you're awake. I was starting to worry, son." He sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching up to remove the damp cloth draped across Alex's forehead.

This is too strange. It must be a dream, yet it feels real. "Sir? Sir, what's going on?" Alexander attempts to sit up, but Washington gently holds him still. "Son, you have a fever. I told you you shouldn't have worked today." He gives Alex a stern look.

What is going on? One minute he's working at his desk, the next he's lying in a bed in a room that isn't his, apparently ill. A thought occurs to him. Where is he, exactly? This isn't the medic's tent, obviously, so whose room is this? Suddenly Alexander's eyes are drawn to the two pairs of boots in the corner of the room, his and one other. Of course. This must be the General's room. Panic seizes him. What would the others say if they found out about this? What if someone found out and used the information for blackmail? _What if what if what if…_

Washington seems to notice Alexander's distress, and places a hand on his shoulder, whispering soothingly. "Hey, calm down, son. Shhhhh. You'll feel better by morning." Almost as if to prove the man wrong, a sharp cough bursts out of Alexander. Instantly, Washington has him sitting up, and is rubbing his back, gazing at him with concern and apprehension. "I- I'm fine." Alexander wheezes.

"No, you most certainly are not." Washington snaps back. "Alexander Hamilton, you are ill and you are not picking up a pen until I'm satisfied that you have fully recovered, understand?"

Too surprised to do much more, Alexander nods. Then, "Yes sir." As if he would've said anything else to the General. It's enough to please the man, however. Washington's expression softens a bit, and he draws the blankets around Alexander. "Sleep, son. You need rest." Washington closes the door, leaving Alex behind in the dark bedroom.

What. The. Hell. When Alexander had woken up that morning, he hadn't expected to end the day in the General's room, and in his _bed._ And on top of that, he was definitely sick. He could feel the tightness of his chest, along with the fever. Deciding to worry about it in the morning, Alexander rolls over and drifts to sleep.

The following morning brings heavy rain. It pounds the windows, and turns the camp into a muddy mess. For Alexander, it brings heavy coughing, a tight chest, and a fever returning with vengeance. Washington happens to enter the room when he is in the middle of a particularly violent bout of coughing. Rushing to him, the older man quickly pulls Alexander into a sitting position. The attack subsides, and Alex leans his head back against the wall, groaning. Only then does he notice the other man that came with Washington into the room, a physician who's been busy unpacking a black bag. He walks over to the two, and smiles at Alexander, something he feels is very out of place at the moment. "Hello, there. General Washington tells me that you've come down with something. Not to worry, we'll get it sorted out soon enough." Alexander decides that he really doesn't like this man, and narrows his eyes, the last cough having temporarily left him unable to speak.

Washington watches as the physician runs through his routine, standing to the side so to give the man room. Trying (and failing) to make small talk with Alexander, the physician simply continues on and on, until at last he turns back to the General.

Alexander is relieved when the man finally steps away to converse with Washington. Listening closely, he hears the man saying "...fortunately, it's nothing serious, just keep him away from the desk for a while, and make sure that he's not doing anything strenuous. It'll aggravate his lungs, see? He'll have the cough for a day or two more, but the fever will go down soon, so don't worry. And he'll want to rest frequently, of course."

"Yes, I'll make sure that Alexander is resting. Thank you. Is there anything he can eat to speed his recovery?"

"Not really, but I've always found that tea or coffee is a nice way to soothe the throat. Just don't let him drink alcohol until he's better, either."

"Will do. Thank you."

"Of course, General Washington, I hope your boy recovers quickly."

The physician left, and Washington comes over to the bed, sitting carefully next to Alexander. "You heard him, no writing until you're better. But at least you're alright. You worried me, dear boy. I was afraid he'd say you were terminally ill. The cough will go in time, and the fever will be gone within a day if you're lucky. You'll be back up in no time, son. I'll be sure to inform your friends that you are alright. They're bound to be concerned."

"Thank you, Your Excellency. I- are you sure I can't get up, just to walk around?" Alexander looked at Washington with wide, pleading eyes. The older man just shook his head. "I'd let you, but under the risk that it might make things worse I think it would be best if you stayed here." Sighing in defeat, Alexander sank back against the soft pillows, gazing up at Washington. The General looked back at him, and Alexander saw many different emotions warring in his eyes. Concern, fear, (of what, he couldn't say) and what might have possibly been affection, though it was concealed. Washington placed a hand on the back of his head, comforting and reassuring. Suddenly, Alexander just felt _tired._ The need to sleep was overwhelming. Closing his eyes, he felt himself slip into sleep.

 _PERSPECTIVE: WASHINGTON_

Alexander's eyes slid shut, and his breathing evened out, though Washington could still hear the slight rasp it made, signs that the cough was still lingering. He stayed with his boy for a while after, just sitting by his side, stroking his hair softly. He murmured quietly to Alexander, even if he couldn't hear, it would hopefully still comfort him. Washington couldn't deny that he was fearful for Alex's health. Disease had taken too many people he cared about from him. It was not going to take this little lion from him as well.

When the physician had said that Alexander would recover, he'd been incredibly relieved. At times like these, when medicine was scarce, men could die from even the slightest infections. Poor Alexander. He hated not being able to do anything, and with him confined to a bed, he'd likely go stir-crazy. Perhaps his friends would be able to offer some small comfort. Washington set off to find them, they would probably be worried, having not seen their friend for almost a day.

Speak of the devil, he'd barely made it down the hall before he ran into the Marquis de Lafayette. "Ah, General Washington. Have you seen _Alexandre?_ We cannot find him anywhere, and he is ill." The man looked worried and unfocused. "Yes, he's fine. Just resting. You're correct, he is indeed ill, and he will be staying where he is for the next few days until he's recovered." Lafayette looked relieved. "Might we be able to speak to him? I can go and find Officers Laurens and Mulligan now."

"When he awakes, I will tell you, and then you may see him."

"Thank you."

The campground was reduced to tents sitting in mud. Soldiers skirted puddles, and sank into mud up to their ankles. Most everyone was inside, cleaning weapons, writing letters, or just staying dry. Rain poured down, soaking any unfortunate soul that happened to be caught out - of- doors within a few moments. Washington sighed and turned back inside. No one else was wandering around, except for the stray guardsmen on duty.

He headed to his study to pen a letter to Martha, who was back home in Virginia. Writing about the weather, their progress against the British, food, how he missed her dearly, and almost anything he thought of.

He sealed the letter, and stood, intending to find a messenger to take the letter to a post office. A muffled scuffling noise sounded from one room over. Washington was suddenly tense. Was someone trying to sneak around? Redcoats, spies, traitors, all possible scenarios flashed through his mind. Carefully treading around the door, he lurked to one side, waiting until it opened. As soon as it did, he seized the exiting person by the shoulders.

A squeak emerged from his captive. Alexander? He wasn't supposed to be up. Sighing, Washington guided Alex back into the room, giving him a gentle shove towards the bed. "Just what do you think you're doing? You were told to stay put." He gives the boy a stern look.

Alexander sighs, picking at the bedsheets. "M' sorry, sir, I just wanted to get up, and walk around a little. I'm not _that_ ill, really." Washington is more than a little annoyed now. _Why_ was it so hard for his boy to understand that people died from illnesses like this? Why couldn't he see that Washington was worried for him? "No matter the severity of your disease, you are staying here until it's gone. If I find you up again, I'll have you tied down." he tells him, only half joking.

The boy's eyes widen, and he obediently flops back. "Yes, sir!" Washington gives a small smile, drawing the blanket up. "Stay awake for a while longer, your friends want to speak with you." With that, he leaves the room to find Alexander's three friends.

 _PERSPECTIVE: ALEXANDER_

Alexander could never tell when Washington was making a joke. He honestly wouldn't have put tying him down past the man, though knowing that he was just trying to ensure his well-being. Waiting patiently, he was more than ready to see his friends again. Fortunately, it wasn't long before the General returned, bringing with him the Marquis, Laurens, and Mulligan. Calling out to each other excitedly, the four embraced as best they could.

"TOLD YOU SO!" was the first thing out of Laurens' mouth. "WHAT'D I SAY? I KNEW YOU WERE SICK!"

"Well, you don't have to sound so excited, John." Alexander replied, laughing.

"Maybe now you'll take our advice, yeah?" Hercules crowed.

"Yes, you guys were right, for once." Alex grins.

"For _once_?!" Lafayette looks wounded.

The men banter and laugh, talking for hours. Only when night has fallen, do the other three rise up to return to their own bunks. After they say goodbye, Alexander is left alone again, confined to the dark room. Fidgeting, he looks around, wishing he had a book, or some paper and ink. Or just for a little company. It comes in the form of General Washington, who enters the room holding a cup and some bread.

Sitting upright, Alex gazes hopefully at the older man, who laughs and hands him the cup, which turns out to be water. He drinks it gratefully, not realizing just how thirsty he was until now. The General explains, "The physician said you should try to eat light, just in case your stomach can't take much food right now." A sudden hand on his forehead makes Alexander jump. "But at least you seem to be getting better."

"Thank you, sir. For, well, everything."

Washington tucks a strand of Alexander's hair behind his ear, looking almost wistful. "Son, I take care of my family."

 _Family._ It's something Alex thought he left behind in the Caribbean. No, he suddenly realizes, he does have a family. He's got Hercules, and Lafayette, and John, and he's got Washington. People who care about him, and whom he cares for as well. Allowing his head to rest on Washington's shoulder, he feels an arm curl him into the man's chest, a wordless confirmation of what was said.

It is late, and even the strongest of warriors falls to that never-ceasing enemy, exhaustion. As both men's eyes close, a single thought flashes through each of their minds.

 _I love you._

 **Ok I apologize for the ridiculous amount of fluffiness. But to be fair, we all need fluff sometimes. And I love love love writing Washingdad fics. Hope you all enjoyed this, review and if you've got any requests I'll gladly take them. I'm out! ~RedCoatsRedder**


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